You've Been Served
by Las Vegas Navarro
Summary: Beware messengers bearing papers. . .
1. Chapter 1

Receptionist Abby Moreno raised her head at the sharp sound of the security door leading from the checkpoints just inside the entrance to the Los Angeles field office of the FBI. A scrawny college student loosened the straps of his bicycle helmet and dug for the parcel earmarked for special attention by a certain FBI agent. She smiled and pressed a button that projected an indexed directory on the touch screen in front of the large, round desk.

The bicycle courier took the hint and, after assuring himself that he had the correct envelope, began to navigate the directory. When he found the agent that he wanted, he tapped the name to reveal which office the agent belonged to. All he got in response was a loud beep and a surprised glance from the receptionist.

"Who are you trying to find, sir?" Abby asked pleasantly. He shrugged and handed her his manifest, indicating the fourth name down on the list. She pinched the bridge of her nose in slight annoyance. This new system was supposed to lighten the workload, but she found that she was just as efficient without it. It was riddled with bugs and errors; another government innovation that would soon be known as a waste of tax dollars.

"You'll find him on the fifth floor. One moment and I'll print a visitor's pass for you." Her hands flew at the terminal and soon the printer whirred to life. The courier kept his head down and avoided eye contact. Abby figured he was shy.

"Is it nice out today?" She asked brightly. He shrugged.

"Smoggy," he said by way of reply. She clucked her tongue sympathetically and handed him his pass.

"Fifth floor," he mused. "Thank you, ma'am," he said to Abby and without a glance in her direction headed for the elevator. As the doors opened and he stepped in, Abby turned back to her terminal and reached for the phone.

"Hey Stu, it's Abby. Yup, the directory is down again."

* * *

The elevator doors opened to reveal a maze of cubicles and the cacophony of the agents working amid the jungle of squares. Setting his shoulders, he strode out of the elevator with false bravado and began peering around. A tall agent spied his distress and started toward him.

"Hello. Is this a certified letter?" She asked politely. He nodded in response. Hands trembling, he examined the letter closely and cleared his throat.

"It's for an Agent-"

"Eppes?" She cut him off. He shook his head.

"N-no," he stammered. "It's, ah, for an Agent Granger?" She eyed him suspiciously. When Don was busy (which was often) Megan always handled his mail, and had learned from experience that he received a large amount of certified mail. She'd just assumed this was the same.

There was definitely something off about this letter, though. First, why was the courier so nervous, and second, when had she or David _or_ Colby gotten certified mail at work? The man avoided her eyes determinedly.

"Well, if you like, I can just-" she began gently.

"NO! No," he said, upset. "I-I have to verify his identity and get both a fingerprint and his signature," he clarified. Now Megan was on high alert. A fingerprint and signature? It sounded dangerously like another black op. She put her hand on his arm and guided him to the conference room.

"Wait here," she said authoritatively. As the door swung closed, the man drew in a quivering breath. He hated serving papers, especially these kinds. He tried to steady his nerves and began setting out his supplies on the table.

* * *

Megan rounded the corner and saw that Colby was deep in conversation with a would-be witness on the phone.

"Yes, Mrs. Crantz, we take these things _very_ seriously and are always glad to have your input. However, we investigated thoroughly and found nothing amiss with your neighbors. Yes, I _am_ aware that the Aman-Jaras are of Israeli descent, but both Mr. and Mrs. Aman-Jara are native U.S. citizens as well as their two children. Well, they aren't prohibited from traveling abroad and certainly not from visiting family over there. Yes, we'll keep an eye on them just in case." Megan decided that she'd let him suffer enough in the grip of Mrs. Crantz and tapped on the cubicle. When he looked up, she motioned urgently to him. He smiled in relief.

"Mrs. Crantz, I'm terribly sorry to cut this short, but there's been a break in another case and I have to leave immediately. Yes, ma'am, you have my word. Have a good day." He hung up on the squawking woman and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks for gettin' me out of _that _one. Someone at Homeland Security hates us." He rubbed his eyes.

"Only one?" retorted Megan with a smirk. "What happened this time?"

"Her neighbors, who both grew up in San Clemente and graduated from UCLA, are Israeli terrorists." He shook his head. Megan shared his smile but sobered when she remembered her errand.

"There's a courier waiting for you in the conference room," she said. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and then knit them in confusion.

"A courier waiting for me? What for?" he asked.

"I was kind of hoping you could tell me. He says he has a letter for you, and in order to release it he has to ID you and get a fingerprint _and_ a signature." She gave him a probing glance. He put up his hands and shook his head once more.

"I told them I was out. Completely. Whatever it is, I'm not in the game. I'm right where I belong." He held her stare, and after a moment, she backed off, satisfied.

"Okay. I just-"

"Believe me, Megan," he said as he stood and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair.

"I know exactly what you were trying to do, and I appreciate it better than anyone else could." He favored her with a smile before setting out for the conference room.

"Colby," she called after him.

"Yeah?" he replied, turning back to her.

"He's a little twitchy. Be careful," she advised. He nodded and proceeded to the conference room.

* * *

Colby sized the man up through the glass. He was gangly, like he hadn't quite grown into his height. He estimated that the guy was around twenty or so. Taking a deep breath, he surreptitiously undid the safety snap on his sidearm, and pushed the door gently open.

The courier jumped, startled, when he heard the door open. Colby, trying to allay his fears, smiled and held out his hand.

"I'm Agent Granger, Colby Granger." The courier wiped his hands nervously on his pants and shook the proffered hand. Colby gestured to the materials on the table.

"What's all this?" he asked, and the courier immediately put the table between them.

"I have documents for you, Agent Granger. S-some identification please?" Megan wasn't lying; this kid was downright _squirrelly_. He left the distance between them and slowly set his badge and ID on the table. The courier snatched them hastily and examined them painstakingly. When he was satisfied, he returned them and gestured to an inkpad.

"In-in order to release them to you, I n-need your thumbprint in this box," he said, indicating the appropriate space on a form lying on the table.

"What exactly do these documents pertain to?" asked Colby, a direct and penetrating stare fixed on the other man.

"Well, uh, I certainly don't have that information," began the courier, but Colby stopped him with a hand.

"Your behavior indicates that you do," he said evenly. "Let's try again. What is all this about?" The courier looked pale.

"C'mon, will ya?" he said pleadingly. "I just deliver the papers, I don't-"

"What is all this about?" repeated Colby. He kept his voice calm, but authoritative. The courier's shoulders sagged.

"I don't know exactly what they say, but usually these papers mean you're gettin' divorced," he blurted out. Colby couldn't restrain his reaction.

"What?!" he said incredulously. The courier backed up.

"Hey, man, don't kill the mess-" he started, before he realized the large FBI agent was laughing. At the man's confused look, Colby stifled his giggles and tried to explain.

"I don't think you've got the right man. I've never been married, never even _proposed_! You'd better take these back-"

"No way. No can do. Now, if you'll just..." he trailed off, gesturing to the inkpad once more. Colby shrugged his shoulders and did as the young man asked.

"And sign here, please," said the courier as he marked his clipboard with an X. Colby again did as he was told and was rewarded with a large manila envelope. The courier packed his items with light speed and all but ran out of the conference room.

* * *

Colby scrutinized the envelope. It was indeed addressed to him, but he had no idea what it could be. Deciding to use caution, he donned gloves and gently broke the seal holding the flap down. He slid the contents slowly out and spread them on the surface. Three smaller envelopes now littered the table, and he picked up the envelope labeled "Read First".

Again, with extreme caution, he opened the flap. Seeing no powder or other cause for alarm, he slid the folded piece of paper out and opened it. He scanned the heading: "Agent Granger, C c/o FBI Field Office Los Angeles" et cetera. He briefly glanced at the handwriting. It was oddly familiar. He was still trying to place it when he finally comprehended the first sentence:

_You have a son, if you want one._


	2. Chapter 2

As the elevator doors opened, Don allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He hated, _hated _so-called "Special Clearance" meetings. The term "Special Clearance" was a simple euphemism for budgetary ass-chewing. Fortunately, he maintained that he had no ass left to chew, and the board agreed. Barely.

He strode to his office on autopilot, hardly glancing up from his phone for even seconds. The device had vibrated almost incessantly throughout the entire meeting. How did Charlie or Dad always know when he was in a meeting? The messages went from cordial to terse and finally angry. At least Charlie's were text messages, easily deleted.

It took him a full minute to realize that Sinclair and Reeves were waiting at his desk and only then because Reeves cleared her throat. He raised his head quickly enough to ensure whiplash. Because he was an overachiever, he felt the telling numbness creeping up the side of his face.

"Whoa! Can't a man be in his office five seconds without being ambushed?" said Don crankily, trying to cover his preoccupation.

"One, you've been in your office for more than five seconds, and two, this is not an ambush. This is desperation," retorted Megan. Don paused in the middle of taking his jacket off to look at her more closely. Though the words said were in fun, the tone was not.

"Colby got a letter," added David. Don swallowed carefully and tried to collect his thoughts. That was difficult to do when he was still in semi-administrative battle mode. He sat in his chair and they followed his example.

"It's okay for Colby to get mail," Don began slowly, his tone overly calm.

"Certified?" pressed Megan, sliding slightly toward the edge of her seat. Don slid back from his desk somewhat in an unconscious effort to put some distance between himself and his overly anxious agents.

"Certified is unusual, but-" David cut him off, frustrated.

"Megan thinks it's another black op, another spy game," he blurted out. Megan gave him a glare, and David rolled his eyes at her.

"What's your proof that this letter is, well, what you think it is?" asked Don.

"Well, he had to give them his fingerprint to get it," said David.

"And?" prodded Don, growing more irritated by the second.

"It was delivered to him half an hour ago, and he hasn't moved since, hasn't spoken to anyone," worried Megan. "I knocked on the glass, tried to get his attention a couple of times, but he's even turned his cell off."

"Where is he?" Don sighed, rising from his chair.

"Conference room," answered a relieved David. Don left his office with a determined stride. Megan was not prone to overreaction, and David was not prone to antagonizing Megan. He shook his head wryly. It must be his day for everything and everyone around him to go bananas.

Megan and David watched him depart. After a beat, David tilted his head toward the conference room. The two agents rose and made their way after their boss as nonchalantly as possible.

* * *

In the conference room, Colby sat with his head in his hands, mind awhirl. _You have a son, if you want one._ It was not subtle, but subtlety had never been her style. He picked up the letter and re-read it again.

_Dear Colby,_

_You have a son, if you want one. I see no reason to begin with a large preamble; those are for Constitutions and marriage ceremonies. I need to know your thoughts on the subject._

_He's not yours in the strictest sense, though he bears your name. I always liked Granger, and the name has liked him back. Granger Devon Kritchfield is ten years old, but already ahead of his time in life experience. For that, I'll always be sorry; I won't have the chance to make it up to him._

_I have end-stage ovarian cancer. By the time I knew something was wrong, it was too late to do anything about it. Granger knows that I'm sick, and he knows that I'm going to die. He also knows that I'm doing everything I can to find a family who will love and care for him. He doesn't have the advantage of extended family; I divorced his 'father' on my own and we fled from his family._

_The man I married is not what he seemed at first. He is in the second tier of leadership for a white supremacist group, prone to violent demonstrations. Yes, I was five months pregnant and desperate for a roof over my head. Yes, I was stupid enough to move away from the little family I have and let him isolate me completely. He knows everyone I know, excepting you that is._

_I hate the fact that you're my only hope because this is so unfair to you. Unfortunately, I'm out of options. If I put him up for adoption, my ex-husband or his family will likely get custody. I don't have enough time to request paternity testing to prove that my ex-husband isn't the father; you know how likely it is that I even _know_ who Granger's father is. _

_If I can't find someone to take him in, I'll have to take him with me. _I am deadly serious about that._ Sorry, no pun intended. I'm hoping that you won't have to take him in because you'll have a better solution. You always were a very smart kid. I'm hoping that ten years has only added to that big brain of yours. You have many faults, but ignorance was never one of them._

_Enclosed in the other two envelopes are some pictures. Look at them, don't look at them, it's up to you. There are also pre-addressed envelopes and the number of the courier service I used; any and all correspondence has already been paid for. _

_If you can't or don't want to take Granger, I understand. No one knows better than I do what exactly I'm asking. It's beyond the moon, maybe even beyond the stars. But if you could grab a chunk of sky for me, I'd appreciate it._

_Please respond, no matter what you decide. I'll at least be able to rest knowing that I did everything I could for my son. I hope to hear from you soon._

_Most Sincerely,_

_Jeanette Barnes _

Colby heaved a deep, dispirited sigh. So many emotions begged for top billing that he didn't know what to feel first. Pity, sorrow, sympathy, helplessness, and frustration were heavy contenders. But he'd laughed at her reference to the "chunk of sky" he'd promised her so many years ago, laughed when she excused her blunt first sentence with sarcasm about preamble and the Government class they'd shared senior year.

Memories screamed through his head like bullet trains. Passing notes in Mr. Sperry's English class that said absolutely nothing; racing home on the rails of the train tracks, each of them trying not to fall. Meeting in the basement of one of his football buddies, pretending to-

He scrubbed his hand over his face, willing them away. Here, _here and now_ was where the dilemma lay. For a brief moment, he wished he'd been more forceful with the courier, wished that he'd forced the papers away. But he knew that, given the choice between ignorance or the opportunity to help his friend, he'd always choose the latter. After all, ignorance wasn't one of his faults.

* * *

Don studied the hunched figure just inside the glass for a brief moment. He had to concentrate intensely to see if Colby was even breathing. Resisting the urge to roll up his sleeves, Don heaved a deep pull-yourself-together-and-prepare-for-the-worst sigh and gently opened the door.

Colby didn't realize the door had opened until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Slightly startled, he turned and saw his boss standing behind him. Don smiled reassuringly and took a chair across the table from him. He cleared his throat.

"What's goin' on here?" he asked far more calmly than he felt. Truth be told, Megan and David had him jumpy, too. Colby gave him a sad smile and looked at the table.

"Just your regular, run-of-the-mill catch-22," he replied, his voice laying his anguish bare for all the world to see.


End file.
